


You Will Know Them by the Ice and the Fire

by kittykatknits



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Fluff, His Other Sword, Jon is Azor Ahai, Post-Canon, R plus L equals J, Sansa is Nissa Nissa, Smut, it is known, sex spell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13540065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittykatknits/pseuds/kittykatknits
Summary: The legend of Azor Ahai says he will plunge his sword into the woman he loves, making a sacrifice of her. Well, the legend got half the story right. The part it got wrong though, that's what really matters.





	You Will Know Them by the Ice and the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This follows more book than show canon. Sansa and Jon reunited at WF.  
> 2\. Dany is in Mereen, nibbling on honeyed locusts. Harry is looking for another merchant's daughter. LF is so busy cackling evilly, he hasn't noticed the Vale army up and left.  
> 3\. Even though not explicitly mentioned, I pictured Rickon, Arya, Selyse, Brienne, Theon, Asha, and some others there in WF too.  
> 4\. They all know r plus l equals j. I don't know how, they just do.

Jon stood on the battlements over the main gate, gazing at the winter town below. It was a ruin, the burnt and destroyed buildings now lay buried under a thick heap of snow. Winterfell was no different. The gargoyles of the First Keep were indistinct white masses while every roof, stone and thatch alike, seemed to wilt from the heavy weight of snow covering it. Everywhere, snow lay in thick clumps, banked against the castle’s inner walls. It fell on him, thick, wet, and heavy. The wind howled, delivering the same cruel threat it did everyday from its origins so far to the north... _the dead are coming...the dead are coming…_

Wet ice slammed into him but it was a typical winter cold, not the frozen burn he always felt in her presence. She was drawing closer. He wondered, not for the first time, if she could sense his presence too. He drew his hood back, letting the snow land in his hair and along his neck and shoulders, waiting.

“Are you so determined to hide away from me?” It was her, as he’d known it would be.

Jon stepped away from the battlements’ edge, drawing closer to Sansa. “I wanted to feel the cold.”

“It seems you have. There is ice in your hair and your lips are starting to turn blue. Come with me.” She held out her hand, expecting him to take it, but Jon did not. Giving up, Sansa touched his cheek and the barest edge of his lips. Even through the leather and fur lining of her gloves, Jon sensed the faint burn of her touch, like a fingertip drawing overly close to a candle’s flame.

“Where would you have me go?” There was no place for them to be alone. Every room and bed chamber, no matter how small, was crammed full of bodies, high born and small folk alike. They were no exception, Jon shared chambers with those he once only knew as his brothers and sisters. In truth, they still were, except for her. Sansa was different somehow, the exact nature of their relationship was something still undefined.

“To our rooms first. After that, the Lady Melisandre asked after you.” On the battlements, where it was only them, Sansa made no effort to hide her disdain for the red witch.

“Tell her to go throw herself in one of those pyres she loves so dearly.” Sansa pressed her lips together, trying to hold back laughter. “The dead will be here again soon. We won’t have your knights to save us this time.”

“They will fight if needed, all our men will. My Jon would have faith.”

“Your Jon is mad.” He wondered if it was true, as he had so many times since reuniting with Sansa.

She did not offer her hand this time, choosing to grab his and pull him towards the stairway. Jon followed without complaint, he’d gladly go wherever she led. As they walked, she rambled away, telling him of the latest to seek refuge within the walls of Winterfell. More came every day, helpless and frightened, desperate for the care of House Stark. Sansa offered her protection to them all. Stannis was still king in name, but Jon knew it was his cousin who ruled.

She slowly closed their chamber door, the squeak of hinges sounded piercing in the room’s quiet. Jon could almost hear the swish of her dress against the stone floor beneath them. They were alone, as he knew they would be. He wondered if it was mere happenstance or Sansa planned it. He knew which he would prefer.

“Do you feel it?” he blurted out. She’d found him so quickly this time, she had to feel it.

Sansa stared at him blankly. “The cold? We all feel it, winter is here,” she said carefully. Jon didn’t believe her. She was lying.

“The heat,” he answered but did not explain further. He stayed silent as Sansa stripped off his clothing, gone wet from the snow and ice, until he stood before her clad only in his breeches. “My hair is wet too.”

“Then we shall dry it,” she said. Sansa grabbed a towel and stood before him.

She meant to hand it to him. Jon had a different plan. “Will you help me?” he quietly asked.

She bit her lower lip, shyly glancing away from him. This was another part of Sansa only he knew. She played confident and sure in front of everyone but it was an act. With him, she showed her true self. She didn’t bother with an answer, choosing to rub at his hair with the towel instead, as he’d expected.

“How can you not feel it?” he asked, deciding to try again. She was so close, Jon could feel the heat of her body, even through the thick wool and fur she wore.

“How can I not feel what?” Her fingers grazed his temples, it made him think of a candle’s burn again.

“I know you were in the kitchens before seeking me out.” Sansa kept her silence, he’d guessed correctly then. “You think my wits are addled.” He felt defeated.

She set the towel on the nearby table before tenderly cupping his cheeks. “I never thought you had wits to begin with,” she said, although the lightness of her tone belied the seriousness of her words.

Jon laughed. If he were to peer into a looking glass, he’d see the skin where she touched him completely seared away. “You know me so well.” He met her jape, even though he spoke the truth. She understood him. Sansa resumed her task, rubbing his chest and belly with the towel. She didn’t comment on his scars. “You never ask me about them.” A different tact, he hoped it would lead to some confirmation she felt it too.

Her movements stopped abruptly. Sansa stared at his chest and neck, at the ugly, puckered flesh that still lingered. “I have scars too.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve seen you.” Only the once, but the vision was still with him. Jon had come upon Sansa as she’d left her bath several days past. He’d glimpsed the luscious curve of her hips and the sweet valley between her breasts. Jon knew what lay between her legs too. He’d ceased any effort to see her as only his sister that night. It was a change easily made.

“Not all scars are so visible. Believe me, you know them all,” Sansa said. She traced the scar on his neck, an ugly moon-shaped thing, before drawing away. “Mine are healing slowly, as do yours. It’s Winterfell, I think, that makes it possible.” Her voice drifted towards the end, as if she spoke to herself almost as much as him.

“I still feel the heat of my funeral pyre. It’s grown substantially worse of late.” He paused, studying her for a flicker in her eyes or twitch of her lips. Some hint that Sansa felt it too, but there was nothing. Only curiosity over whatever else he might say. She’d believe him, of that Jon did not doubt. “Do you feel it?”

“No, only the cold. A bitter, frigid cold that’s crept under my skin and lives in my body.” She replaced the towel in her hands with one of his clean tunics but made no effort to dress him. “It’s growing worse,” she admitted.

He was leeching it from her and Jon didn’t know how to stop it. He glanced downwards, at his burned right hand. “How do you feel now?” Jon used his left, palming her chest, close to her heart.

Sansa’s lids drifted shut. “Perhaps it is my wits that are addled,” she mumbled. She pulled his hand away, it felt as if his skin was burning. “What does Lady Melisandre want?”

To kill you, but he could not tell her that. “To convince me I need to listen and do as she bids me. She seems to think if I kneel to her god, we will all be saved.” If he gave his beloved to the flames, they would be saved. Jon was not Stannis though, Melisandre would learn that soon enough.

“And will you do as she bids you?”

He swallowed thickly, guiltily. “No. Besides, she isn’t the woman I want to follow.” Jon pulled on his tunic and finished dressing in silence. “When will we be alone again?”

Sansa giggled. “When summer comes.” Jon would go mad long before then.

He found the red witch in the small room she kept, near the king’s chamber. Stannis had not yet been sighted in Winterfell that day.

“Snow, I saw her in the fires again today.”

It was as he expected. “Did you now?” Jon could not bring himself to trust her, no matter how Melisandre tried. It seemed to him the way to vanquish a foe whose only purpose was to kill did not lay with using the same methods. Fire or ice, it made no matter.

“She will submit, R’Hollor has revealed it. One sacrifice and you will save us all.”

“Aye, and I’ll wake a stone dragon and save my sister too,” he dismissed. “Will the towers of Eastwatch fall as well?”

The ruby at her throat pulsed, accentuating the red of her eyes. “The flames always show true, even when I fail to see,” Melisandre told him.

“Your flames led Stannis to burn his own daughter,” Jon said, horrified. “A girl is dead because of your flames.”

“Use your sword, Jon Snow. I saw her breasts bared for you. I saw her submit. When she does, come to me.” She’d once spoken almost the same thing. It had been of no use then either.

“Thank you for your counsel.” Jon had seen Sansa’s breasts as well. She’d let him look his fill, it wasn’t so very different than submitting. The red witch was wrong. “Your R’Hollor does not rule here. It is the old gods we follow and they would be wroth if I was to do as you suggest.” This was a waste, he would not come at her summons again. Cleaning piss pots was a better use of his time.

“I saw you holding a glowing sword in battle, shivering from the cold,” she called out to his departing back. Melisandre made it sound a promise, some queer enchantment to cast him under a spell.

“It is winter, I would expect so,” he lied. Still, she’d frightened him. If Jon felt the cold, he wondered what it meant for her. “If you ask for me again, I will not come.”

Jon stood in the yard. The grounds were filled with men, free folk and Vale knights mixed with mountain clans and White Harbor soldiers. He could see men clad in black too, his former brothers who still called him Lord Commander. There were archers and foot men, mounted knights and camp followers. Sansa insisted all he had to do was lead but he could not, not yet.

She was close. Jon recognized the familiar burn of ice but he did not seek her out. Instead, Jon turned towards the maester’s turret, deciding to visit Bran and Sam.

“How long do we have?”

Bran’s expression was solemn. “Two days. Maybe three, I think,” he said gravely.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jon demanded of them, as he always did.

Sam glanced up at him, seemingly forcing himself to stop reading the weathered volume in his lap. “We have spent the day studying tales of the last hero.”

That was useless, one of Old Nan’s tales. “Yes, ice spiders and a man with a horse and a dog. Tell me something useful.”

“Maester Kennet wrote a study of northern tales and legends,” Sam shot back. He considered it a grievous sin when Jon dismissed the knowledge found in books.“Tales of giants slain and curses delivered on kings long ago. He says the last hero will come back.”

That was useful. “Where can I find him?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Sam answered.

Bran smiled sweetly, reminding Jon of the boy he once knew. “Old Nan used to say we would know him by the fire and the ice, the flames and the cold.”

Jon misliked that. It was overly close to Melisandre’s prediction. “I’d hoped you would tell me we could find him in the ruins of the glass gardens or the broken tower perhaps. Him and his companions.”

“If that were so, I’d go get him myself and present him to you.”

He laughed at Sam’s jape. Jon left them to their studies, making his way to the godswood. The snowy path was untrodden, each step seemed to pull at his boots and soak his breeches. Still, he pushed forward until the heart tree appeared. Jon sank to his knees, waiting. He did not pray or look for any sign from the old gods. It was not their counsel he sought.

Jon could sense her, she was in the kitchens, or close to them. Taking count of their food stores, he guessed, wondering how many days were left until she could no longer feed her people. The heat had grown worse, it was an inferno under his skin clamoring to get out. He removed his cloak, tossing it over a nearby root. It helped some, not enough. His sword belt was next. Jon threw it next to the discarded cloak before repeating the action with his jerkin and tunic.

His wait continued. He could only guess at the passage of time, away from the activity. The sky above him was a dull, lifeless gray, devoid of sunlight. Jon grew restless in his vigil so he drew Long Claw from where it rested in its scabbard. He pressed his thumb to the cool Valyrian steel, enjoying the blade’s sharp edge. His boots were abandoned shortly after.

The sky began to dim, an ugly sort of dusk, and the quiet grew eerie and oppressive. Jon’s patience began to wear at him, she never stayed away for so long. Sansa was still in the kitchens. He did not think it would take so long to count sacks of flour and barrels of potatoes. He closed his eyes, Jon could almost glimpse her at work with her dress of silver wool and fox fur. The many cook fires would make the autumn in her hair glimmer.

He tightly gripped Long Claw’s hilt and ran, unseeing, out of the godswood. He raced through the many yards, passing the broken library and into the kitchens.

There she was, wrapped in a man’s cloak and standing next to the ovens. Jon’s heart clamored and his stomach flipped. A bead of sweat fell down his back, so hot he’d swear it blistered his skin. Sansa stared at him expectantly.

His sword dropped to the floor, forgotten. “My wits are truly addled and my mind has gone mad. It seems I am also the world’s greatest fool.”

She smiled sadly. “Not the greatest, no.”

Jon knew what needed to be done, only it would be cruel to pull her into the winter that lay outside. He glanced about, taking stock of the Winterfell servants, kitchen maids and serving women. They also did not require an audience.

“Everybody out,” he bellowed. The staff went silent, staring at the two of them, uncertain. “Now or I will start taking heads,” he threatened.

“Was that necessary?” she asked once it was only the two of them that remained.

Jon thought it was. Now, he had only to explain. And to hope. “I know how to fight and I feel most comfortable with a sword in my hand. What should I do when neither path will help?”

“In the Red Keep, I learned when one can not fight, they must learn how to submit.” She pulled the cloak tighter. She was shivering too, even with the hot ovens so close by. “Is that what you are going to ask of me?”

“No, the opposite.” Jon shook his head slowly, lending weight to his statement. The heat was worse in her presence. He expected the skin to melt off his body and the stone under his feet to turn into ash. He understood now, the price she paid to come to him on the battlements. She’d risked her life, Jon could risk telling the truth. “What would you do if I kissed you?”

Sansa drew back, her eyes big and round. He saw the barest trace of hope, but there was fear too. “It would depend on the sort of kiss, don’t you think?” She spoke carefully, giving him nothing.

“Not the kiss of a brother or even that of a friend.”

“A lover then.”

Jon started to blurt a yes but some instinct stopped him. “I’d hoped for more than that.” It was the simple truth. He did not want frenzied kisses before rutting between her legs. He owed her better. “I don't feel the cold. I thought it was some lingering trace of my funeral pyre but I was wrong. It started the day we found each other again, outside the walls of Winterfell but it wasn’t much, not in the beginning. It’s getting worse.” Jon looked around the emptied kitchen. Dough sat uncooked on a counter. A great pot of soup simmered over a stove. It was not the place he would choose for this conversation. “It’s because of you. It’s because of us.” He leaned into her, pressing their lips together before pulling away.

Sansa’s hand covered her mouth with surprise. “I felt that.”

He smiled, bemused. “I would hope so.

“No, you don’t understand. I felt warm,” she explained.

Jon kissed her again, light and quick. It could not be called a brotherly kiss though. He gently removed her grip on the cloak she was still wrapped in. “I think we can make each other better.”

“And if we choose not to?” Sansa took his meaning then.

He lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully, “but I know I love you. You’re very easy to love, Sansa.” She gasped and Jon realized. She’d been correct earlier, he did know all her scars. “Do we make each other better?”

She did not answer, her eyes drifting over his body. Jon decided to sate her curiosity. He untied his breeches, removing the remainder of his clothes, so he stood naked before her. He did not feel any shyness over her unmistaken interest in his arousal. Quickly, deliberately, Sansa began to remove her dress. “I’d sooner not be in the kitchens but I also don't want to risk leaving.”

“We’ll spend the rest of our night in a bed,” he promised. “They can all sleep in the hall.” Arya could howl at him in the morning; his brothers wouldn’t care.

Sansa touched his belly, low so her palm grazed the black curls below. “What do you feel now?”

“Your touch is a frozen burn. Your body though,” he confessed, “it makes me greedy.” Jon took her in, she was so very lovely.

Her hands roamed over his chest, the tips of her fingers pressing ever so slightly against his skin. He wanted more. Jon cupped her cheeks, tilting her head so their eyes met. “This is the first of many nights,” he declared and then he kissed her for a third time, slow and tentative. Sansa trembled against him before her hands moved up to encircle his neck. Jon probed at her, wanting to deepen the kiss. She tasted of the cold, winter and ice. It soothed him.

He broke away, feeling heady. “That was the first of many kisses.” Jon kissed her bottom lip and her chin, creating a path of open mouthed kisses to her lobe and behind her ear. Sansa’s breath hitched and he felt her nails dig into his shoulders. “You like that?” he asked huskily.

“I rather suspect I’ll like everything you do,” she breathed.

Jon did not answer. His hands slid down her neck and chest until he palmed both her teats. “So lovely,” he mumbled absently before kissing one hard nipple and then the other. His cock jutted out in front of him, grazing along the edge of her belly and hip. It roused him further, growing almost painful. Still, Jon was not ready yet. He kissed all over her chest, letting his hands roam along her sides and back. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined you like this? In my arms, wanting me as I’ve wanted you. I’d picture us in bed together, with your legs wrapped around my waist and crying out my name. You’d wake the entire castle.”

Jon kissed her again, feeling hungry and impatient. It was a balm, tempering the wretched fire that seemed determined to consume him.

Sansa drew away. She gazed at him through half-lidded eyes and spoke through swollen lips. “I don’t want to wait.” Her voice had a slight slur to it. I did that, he thought to himself, feeling prideful.

“I don’t either.” Jon looked about, uncertain. It did not feel right to take her on one of the kitchen’s work tables.

She grabbed his cock, making him hiss. Sansa grinned, feral. “The cloak.”

Jon attempted to spread it on the floor but did so rather poorly. Somehow, between kisses and twisted limbs, they lowered themselves together until he rested between her legs. “Are you going to release me?” Sansa’s hand was still wrapped around his cock, lightly stroking.

She only mouthed the word no in answer. Jon twined his fingers through her hair, combing it so the strands spread about her face like a halo. He attempted to slide down her body, wanting to feast and lap at her cunt but she wrapped her legs around him, squeezing him like a vise. Jon stilled and then noticed the gooseflesh along her arms and stomach. “Next time,” he vowed.

“Next time,” she agreed, although Jon wasn’t entirely sure Sansa knew what she was agreeing too.

He kissed her again and covered her body with his. It was a sweet relief, Jon hoped it provided the same for her. They belonged together, he knew, wrapped in each other’s arms as they were.

“Do you want me to continue?”

“I want you to go faster,” she bit out.

Jon breathed deep and gazed down at her. He did as bid, reaching between them to guide himself inside of her. She whimpered the barest amount but gave no other sign of pain or discomfort. He drove into her and then repeated the movements. It was bliss, a slow release that chased the flames away. He felt transformed. “How do you feel?”

Sansa seemed unable to focus on him, her hands caressing down his spine. “Like me but better.”

He stopped, moving so his weight rested on one arm. Sansa’s legs wrapped around his waist, as he’d dreamed of so many times. Jon felt the misery recede from his body, but the madness was still there. He wanted more. “I’ll wager the whole castle knows we’re in here by now. They’ll know what we’re doing too. The scratches on my back and shoulders would give it away and your screams should remove any lingering doubts.”

“What screams?”

“The ones I’m about to draw out of your body.” He grinned down at her, feeling cocksure. Sansa grew even more wet, he loved it.  

Jon drew himself up and rolled his hips. Then, he started to pound into her relentlessly, enjoying the slick feel of her walls against him and the wet slaps of their love making. She keened with every buck of his hips as her wails grew louder and louder. Jon continued his attack, plunging into her, until harsh cries spilled from his lips and Sansa screamed.

He collapsed onto her, panting and spent. Slowly, his senses returned to him. Jon could hear the quiet thunder of her heart beat. “This place smells like fucking and soup.” Sansa sniffed her disapproval but said nothing. Jon smiled lazily at her. “Are you warm?”

She made a sound he took for a yes. They lay together in silence, he could not say how long. “We should go,” she said.

He sighed regretfully. “I’ll help you dress.” Her gown was in a heap next to them, her boots further away. “Fuck,” he said, realizing.

“What’s wrong?”

“All I have are my breeches, not even a pair of socks.”

He stood before helping Sansa rise. Jon pulled on his breeches, deciding to pilfer some bread and cheese for them to take back to their chambers.

“Jon.” The tone of her voice frightened him.

“What’s wrong?” His stomach dropped. He saw it too. He approached, squinting at the bright light. Jon could feel the heat radiating from the blade. His earlier conversations came back, Melisandre may have seen Sansa in her flames but the witch didn’t know her, not like he did. Sansa didn’t submit to him, they gave themselves to each other. Old Nan spoke true, the fire and the ice. He felt giddy. “Marry me.”

“Marry you?”

“Yes, make your cloak and meet me by the heart tree,” he said. Jon picked up the sword that was once Long Claw and thought of the message the northern winds delivered to him. The dead could try all they wished but it didn't matter. He stared at Sansa, the woman he loved, and felt a cool trickle of air on his torso. He was going to win. “Marry me tomorrow.”

 


End file.
